


Chiaroscuro (the Cangiante Repainting)

by EllieMurasaki



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-02
Updated: 2011-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-17 10:57:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllieMurasaki/pseuds/EllieMurasaki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kisses in the dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chiaroscuro (the Cangiante Repainting)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VesperRegina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VesperRegina/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Chiaroscuro](https://archiveofourown.org/works/93846) by [VesperRegina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VesperRegina/pseuds/VesperRegina). 



Mary spends all morning at the cleaner's, dealing with customers whose wool suits are dry clean only and pushing numbers around and replacing solvent in the Spencer machines. She spends the afternoon engineering ways to keep a three-year-old entertained while John worked at the garage. Telling fairy tales only works so long, after all. Dean is utterly uninterested in the trials and tribulations of the little sea maid and her quest to win a soul. It helps not at all that Mary flatly refuses to tell Dean any story with faeries or dragons. There is fiction and then there are lies.

Dean is however fascinated by the story of the princess who loves her father like salt. And the one about the little girl Birdie the adopted sister of a little witch girl. Magic, salt, everything circles back to hunting, to the point that Mary might as well have told Dean the story of Samuel Colt's and Dean Van Halen's magic monster-killing gun when Dean fussed about monsters in his closet. (There aren't any. Mary checked. It's evidently the fault of the Arrott boy down the street that Dean thought there were. Children are vicious little things and Mary sometimes wonders what possessed her to have any.)

All Mary wants to do now is sleep till sunrise. She won't be seeing John tonight, and part of her wishes she were, but John has been in one of Those Moods lately and to be honest Mary is not, on balance, sorry. But there are things to be done before Mary can sleep. Mary tidies the kitchen and balances the checkbook and takes a shower, Dove soap sliding over her skin like satin and VO5 shampoo smoothing her hair to silk, and writes in her journal while her hair dries. _Today Dean counted to four. Mommy, Daddy, Dean, baby. Dean wants a sister, like Lena has Birdie. More accurately, Dean wants a sister his size, like Lena and Birdie. I don't have the heart to tell him that if he takes after his father and grandfather, he's going to be a big man, and it's unlikely that a little sister will ever be as big as he is._

Finally, finally, Mary gets into bed, turns off the light, and slides into blissful sleep.

Mary wakes: a sound. The door opening. Probably just John. Mary hears familiar footsteps on the stairs, familiar breathing in the room, then the shower turning on. Just John, Mary tells herself, and she's glad. She is. He's home, and she's awake to see him. That's a good thing.

The shower stops, and a few minutes later, something large and solid settles into bed behind Mary. Two strong arms pull her close and warm breath tickles her ear. "Hey there, beautiful," John whispers.

Mary smiles and wriggles around to face him. The feel of him drives all else from her mind, as it usually does. Mary's fingers drift up to trace the shape of his face, then follow the curve of his mouth. She leans in to nibble on his lower lip.

Oh yes, she's awake now, feeling warmth pool in her belly as John kisses her. John's gentle with her, getting her engine running with skill and tender care the way he does with the cars he's deep inside all day long. Tonight, though, tired as she is, Mary's not in the mood for gentleness. "Hands behind your head," Mary orders. "Keep them there. Don't move." John rolls onto his back and obeys, and Mary sits up. She kisses her way from the corner of John's lips to his collarbone and with her fingertips she traces idle spirals and pentagrams around his navel. John's penis is standing up and saluting and dribbling wetness down its length, and Mary ignores it for now. There's so much more skin to explore along John's right leg, to begin with, and Mary kisses and caresses from hip to knee and then from knee to ankle.

Mary yawns wide, sleepy, and John's gaze is drawn to her mouth. In the dim light from the streetlight, he looks frustrated. Imagine that. Mary fakes another yawn, wider, and moves as though she's actually planning on lying down beside him and going back to sleep. It sounds like a good plan on paper, but she's plenty worked up by now too, and Mary knows better than to leave anything unfinished, in sex, in hunts, in life.

Mary goes back to John's legs, finds a knot of muscle in his left calf and massages it out, wondering idly what John did to cause it. John moans in pleasure, and Mary orders, "Quiet." John obeys, though Mary can see the difficulty. "Good," Mary says. She leaves a trail of kisses up his leg, and when she gets back to his penis, she considers. It's right there, tempting her so, and he _has_ obeyed his orders. So far today she hasn't given many, though, so Mary sits back and ponders.

John whimpers.

"I told you to be quiet," Mary says. "That's not quiet." John presses his lips together. "Not good enough." Mary smacks John's dick, lightly, just enough to be clearly a punishment. John doesn't make a sound. "Good."

The fabric of Mary's nightgown is driving her mad, so she slips it off. John's eyes trace her body, lingering on her breasts and belly. Mary leans down and keeps kissing in patterns on John's chest and stomach until he's thrusting into the air, impatient, and has been silent long enough to satisfy her. Mary sits up, stretches, enjoys John's gaze on her, and finally settles in to get her mouth on John's cock. She licks up one side and down the other, swirls her tongue around the tip, and he keeps quiet. She kisses a deosil spiral from base to tip, and he keeps quiet. She sucks the flavor of precome off every square inch of him, and he keeps quiet.

"You can talk," Mary says.

"Mary," John says, and comes. The thick liquid fills Mary's mouth; she hates the taste of it but he loves when she does this, so she swallows.

Mary lies down ungracefully next to John. "May I move?" he asks, and Mary makes an affirmative noise. The game's over and she's _sleepy_. John's hands move immediately to the join of Mary's legs, and Mary lets him do as he likes: she'd be fine with no orgasms tonight, but if John is going to insist.

Mary comes in a long slow wave that leaves lassitude behind it. Her mouth still tastes nasty, though. She grumbles, then rolls out of bed.

"Love you," Mary tells John. She slips her nightgown back on, brushes her teeth, and slides back into bed.

John's hand spreads across Mary's abdomen, as though he can feel the heartbeat Mary's pretty sure the baby doesn't yet have. Mary lets him. "Love you," John answers.

Mary smiles—this fairy tale's not over, but she's gotten her happy ending—and sleeps.


End file.
